


demoted to extra

by izadreamer



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: (of SnB characters), Death of a Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, people who deserve better: Ja'far, some references to current SnB chapters, somewhat analysis, takes place during current manga arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 12:58:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6705361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izadreamer/pseuds/izadreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Ja’far remembers Zepar’s dungeon, how he and Masrur had been forced to fight, how he had faked his death to steal a win, how Sinbad had reacted with screaming and threats and a hysteria so strong it was probably the only thing keeping him from tears. He wonders absently if the same would hold true now, whether Sinbad would mourn as he once did, if he’d notice at all.” </p><p>In which silence marks the end of an era and some friendships cannot be saved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	demoted to extra

**Author's Note:**

> Sinbad and Ja'far's relationship seems to have gone from "close friends" to "practically strangers" and this hurts me to my core. So of course I had to write a short fic on it.

Ja’far is no stranger to death.

He knew death before he knew what it meant to live, learned how to kill and how to do it quickly before he’d mastered the art of walking. When Ja’far was three his mother would press knives into his hands and show him how to hold them, and when he was four his father would sneak him outside to the streets, pointing out different people and saying, “The throat for him, though for that lady there you’ll want to aim for the eyes. See that necklace? With enough skill you can avoid it, but if not, better to strike her through the chest.”

When Ja’far was five he killed a boy who’d wandered to close to Sham Lash territory, and when he was six he slit his parents’ throats with trembling hands. After that his memory is a blur, the next four years shrouded by blood and bodies until a boy named Sinbad reached out and tore him free.

He thinks it was only after Sinbad that he learned there were other ways to die than just _death_ , that dying could mean the decay of a life or a mind or even a friendship, and sometimes even all three.

Ja’far wonders what sort of death this bond experienced, whether he let deteriorate or if it withered away when he wasn’t paying attention. He is certain something has died, but it was so slow and gradual he can’t really say. It has only been three years but it feels like millennia ago that he was at Sinbad’s side, shaking him by his robe for losing all of his metal vessels, rolling his eyes at his King’s drunken exploits.

It has only been three years and that should mean nothing, because Ja’far has been with Sinbad for seven years, for eight, for nearly all his life, and why should such an insignificant number have any effect on that?

The worst deaths are the ones you never see coming, Ja’far knows, and he wonders just when he forgot that lesson. He learnt it once over the cooling corpses of his parents and twice before the battered forms of Mystras and Rurumu, and as Ja’far enters the great room that serves as Sinbad’s office he can’t help but feel he’s going to learn this lesson all over again.

“President,” Ja’far says, and bites back the _my king_ or even just _Sin_ that wants to slip past his lips. “That rumor, about the Kou Empire…”

Sinbad doesn’t look up from the papers on his desk, and his reply is calm, flippant, dismissive. He doesn’t even bother with a greeting anymore; but then, neither does Ja’far. “What about it?”

Ja’far steels himself. “You know firsthand that Alibaba’s father was a master tradesman.” The implied _so is Alibaba_ is left unsaid. “Isn’t this just a bit…” He trails off, biting back his next words. _Stupid_ , he wants to say. _Foolish_. It’s not exactly a good idea, making an enemy out of a magi’s chosen—

Not that Sinbad would care about that, anymore. Not that Sinbad cares about much of anything besides his “perfect” world.

Sinbad waves a careless hand. “It’s none of your concern. Did you come all the way here just to ask me that? I know what I’m doing.”

Ja’far hisses in a breath. He wants to shake Sinbad, yank on that overly long ponytail and snap, _It’s **definitely** my concern, why are you doing this, what are you thinking, stop shutting me **out** , Sin—!_

Except Sinbad doesn’t even listen to him anymore, much less bother to tell Ja’far what he’s planning. It used to be that Ja’far would spend his days alternatively keeping Sinbad from trouble or reading the old recounts of their adventures and laughing at the exaggerations as Sinbad yelled at him to _stop, shut up, I wrote that when I was sixteen, Ja’far!_

Now his days are torn between work and worry, between useless busywork that never would have garnered his attention back in Sindria, and repeatedly failed attempts to catch up to a man who seems intent on pushing Ja’far away.

It used to be different, it used to be better, and the knowledge of that burns like bile in the back of his throat. Years ago it was adventure around every corner and a boat that sailed them faithfully onwards, scrolls rolled out on the deck and half-formed plans scrawled on old paper. It used to be that Sinbad would genuinely laugh, and Ja’far would matter, and Mystras would complain about the heat of the southern waters while Hinahoho worried when his children wandered to close to the edge of the ship.

It used to be that they mattered to Sinbad, and it used to be that Sinbad cared about _people_ before he cared about countries or rules or the way of the world.

Ja’far remembers Zepar’s dungeon, how he and Masrur had been forced to fight, how he had faked his death to steal a win, how Sinbad had reacted with screaming and threats and a hysteria so strong it was probably the only thing keeping him from tears. He wonders absently if the same would hold true now, whether Sinbad would mourn as he once did, if he’d notice at all.

“I just worry,” he says finally, voice short and clipped, and all Sinbad does is shrug.

“Don’t be; it’s nothing important.” He looks down at his papers and then up with a frown. “I have a meeting, actually, with Hakuei… could you go find her for me?”

Ja’far breathes in and tries to keep his fingers from clenching at the board, from crushing the scrolls detailing numbers and figures and drivel he’d never have seen three years ago back by Sinbad’s side. There is no burn of tears behind his eyes, no lump in his throat—just a cold pit in his chest and an ache he’s all but grown accustomed to. It’s hard to mourn when the person he’s grieving for is still alive and breathing.

Ja’far is no stranger to death but he wishes he’d never learned of this kind, of this slow gradual decay of something wondrous, something he foolishly thought would last forever. He wishes he never had to witness the death of a friendship, and certainly not this one. He wishes he could fix it but you can’t bring the dead back to life and Ja’far of all people knows better than to try.

“Of course,” Ja’far says, one stranger to another, and when he leaves the room he is followed not by a goodbye, but by silence and the lone click of the door closing shut.

 

 


End file.
